“She really is sorry, Dad.”
Jarrett’s heart staggers. He had never thought to be addressed as “Dad” again and the sound, hearing that small syllable carves a hole inside him so wide and deep, he has not ever found its boundaries, not in this lifetime. He looks up, says, “I know,” and shifts his glance to her. He says her name, “Sophia.”
She nods holding her fingertips tented over her mouth. Above them her eyes are huge.
Jarrett puts his head on one side. “It’s strange that we should meet now. Here. At the end. Isn’t it?”
Chapter 31
THE WALLS
Monday, October 18, 1999 - 10 hours remain
Good Morning, Texas leads with the report that Jarrett has been moved to The Walls in Huntsville. Film that accompanies the story shows a guard tower, a gruesome length of fence topped by razor wire and now, abruptly, the execution chamber where through a partially opened door, the actual gurney with its carefully arranged restraints is visible.
Sophia wrenches her eyes away.
“The Texas Supreme Court has yet to decide on the issue of inadequate counsel.” Trent Hunter, looking suitably grim, peers into the camera. “There’s also been no indication from the governor as to whether or not he’ll intervene. As of now, it appears the execution will go off as scheduled, tonight at six P.M.”
Sophia pushes her plate with its slice of uneaten toast away.
“I’ve been afraid to ask about your visit with him,” Carolyn says. “It must have been so weird.”
“It was weird and upsetting. He was angry at first, but then he—he—softened, I guess, or it seemed as if— But I was so panicked, scarcely articulate. I’m sure I made a complete fool of myself.” He had said her name and she had set down the phone, abandoned the chair unable to respond. It is humiliating when she remembers her actions now. She says, “I imagine the Capshaws are sorry that I went along.”
“I doubt it. If it wasn’t for you, Thomas wouldn’t have seen his dad. They wouldn’t have spoken. No one would know what happened to the codex either.”
“I think Thomas would have told someone or Brian would have. Those boys were suffering over that secret.”
“Well, I still can’t believe it, can you, that Brian got it out of his dad’s car, tossed it into the fireplace, turned the jets on and watched it burn? Seems pretty incredible for a five-year-old.”
“But this five-year-old was listening to his mom tell his dad that she was taking him and his sister and brother away. What Brian heard was that he’d never see his dad again unless the codex was gone.”
“So you think when he heard his parents arguing, he knew it was over the codex?”
“Maybe not precisely, but children can be very intuitive, Carolyn. You’ll see.” Sophia stacks their dishes and takes them to the sink. “In his mind he thought all that needed to happen to make the world okay again was to get rid of the thing. Grace said he’d watched them burn papers in the fireplace before, newspapers and such. They let the kids toss pinecones into the fire. It wasn’t anything new to him.”
“He was just taking care of business, fixing everything.”
Sophia sits down. “It’s the human condition. We come hardwired for it. I’m just glad he told Thomas, that he didn’t have to carry the burden of what he’d done by himself, although, even with the two of them to share it, it was bad enough.”
“It’s good that they’re close, isn’t it? They need each other.”
“Umm.” Sophia picks at her thumbnail. “Did you know Grace never spoke to me again after we left Huntsville.” She says the thing that is weighing on her mind. “I don’t imagine I’ll be seeing any more of her or any of the Capshaws.”
“Oh, Mom. I think you have to give it time. They’re dealing with so much.”
“How do you feel about it, Cecie?” Sophia looks at Carolyn. “He’s your brother, half-brother. You’ve never met and now—”
“Larry asked me the same thing and I said it doesn’t seem real. Maybe it never will.”
Sophia switches off the television. “You wanted me to help him.”
“I know. Cort said there were extenuating circumstances. I thought what if there was some justification? Some reason why—”
The phone rings. Sophia looks at the Caller ID. “It’s Mother.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Carolyn says, but Sophia says no. They will have to speak at some point.
To Sophia’s, “Hello,” Esther says, “You went to see him.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Surely you don’t think you’re responsible to that family.”
“I can’t talk to you right now about this.” Sophia doesn’t know what she expected; she hands the phone to Carolyn and leaving the kitchen, climbs the stairs. Carolyn’s responses to her grandmother trail in her wake: “No, Grandmother, no reporters have shown up so far ...No, I don’t think she’ll be over today....”
Sophia’s teeth clench. She thinks of all her fine talk of forgiveness yesterday. She thinks the moon will fall from the sky sooner than her mother will admit to having played a role in how Jarrett Capshaw’s life will soon end. She remembers Esther’s accusation about the car keys, that Sophia had taken them out of revenge. It had seemed like nonsense to Sophia, but now it seems very clear that Esther’s concern is for her immortal soul. She wants to be excused; she wants her slate wiped clean.
In her bedroom, Sophia opens her bottom dresser drawer and takes out Dylan’s sweater. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she opens the tissue that has gone brittle with age. She runs her fingertip over the little train engine, its happy face. The little engine that could. She hardens her jaw against her regret. There isn’t time for it.
She finds her cell phone and dials and when Phil answers, her throat is knotted and she isn’t sure she can speak.
“Sophia? What is it? What can I do?”
“I need to see him again.”
“All right.”
“I don’t know why. Is that okay? I mean, you don’t think I’m—”
“I know what you mean and no, I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t think this is a situation that can be reduced to a question of right or wrong.”
“It isn’t that I think I can save him. That’s what that odious Trent Hunter will say.” She pauses, goes on. “And it isn’t as if I can make it up.” She plucks at the bed linen.
Phil waits, giving her space to sort it out.
“He might refuse to see me.”
“That’s possible.”
She lifts one sleeve of the sweater. The tiny ribbed cuff is frayed.
“He has the right to say who visits.”
“Of course he does,” Sophia answers.
“No, I mean legally, I think Jarrett Capshaw is at the point where the procedure is to ask his preference and the prison officials, the chaplain possibly, will adhere to that.”
Because he is within hours of execution he is given latitude, Sophia thinks. Wishes within reason are granted. She says, “I don’t have a current phone number for the Slade’s. Do you? They’re the only ones I know who can arrange it.”
“Sit tight.” Phil leaves the phone and after a moment returns, reading the number off to her. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, but thank you.” She overrides a voice in her brain that is desperate to shout: Yes! Please! Is it out of shame or perhaps a need for privacy that she will do this thing that terrifies her alone? Is it penance? That place—the Terrell Unit, yesterday, had been a horror. She imagines The Walls, with its waiting death chamber, is worse.
“I could call the Slades for you, get the ball rolling. How about that?”
Phil’s generosity, his concern, is so honest, it pierces her reserve and Sophia presses her fingertips to her mouth. Swallowing, she says she would be grateful.
“I’ll get back to you as fast as I can,” he says.
By the time Phil calls with details, Sophia’s dressed, conservatively, in gray wool slacks,
a plain white silk shirt, a tweed jacket and black-tasseled loafers. She has her purse on her shoulder, ready to leave the house. She will lock it in the trunk on her arrival.
“It’s done,” Phil says, “at least as far as the warden is concerned. Of course, Capshaw may balk. You won’t know until you get there.”
“I’m on my way now.”
Phil cautions her that it is liable to be a circus given the high profile of the case and the controversy over the legitimacy of volunteering to die. He mentions that the European anti-death penalty groups will be heavily represented and he tells her to watch out for Blanca Salazar, that she’ll have her own pack of reporters trailing her. And then he brings up the codex. “I have to warn you, Sophia, Jasper mentioned they still have hope of recovering it despite the Capshaws’ story about the son burning it up. Jasper said they sent forensic archaeologists over there and found no trace.”
“Are you serious?” Sophia huffs a sigh. “Talk about a complete waste of the taxpayer’s money. For heaven’s sake, Phil, it’s been six years. I would imagine that a lot of fires have been burned in that fireplace since then.”
Phil starts to answer. Sophia talks over him. “That’s why I’m being allowed this visit, isn’t it? Never mind,” she adds quickly. “It doesn’t matter. Just so long as I get in. I owe you, Phil, I mean it.”
“Be safe, Sophia. And call me,” he says.
Carolyn is at the sink washing their breakfast dishes. When she looks up, she knows immediately. “You’re going back.”
Sophia nods.
Carolyn shuts off the water and drying her hands, she comes to Sophia and embraces her. “I thought you might.” She steps back, tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, Mom....” she says, and the words are a prayer, a benediction. When she offers to come along, “For moral support,” she says, Sophia turns her down too, the same as Phil.
She finds her keys and says she won’t be long.
Outside, she is about to climb into her car when Wick Bowen pulls into the driveway and her heart stumbles, falls. “Did Carolyn call you?” she asks as he approaches.
“No, I hope I’m not intruding, but I’ve been so concerned. I’ve left messages.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s been—” But no, she won’t make an excuse, not this time. “I’m just overwhelmed, Wick. I thought my son was dead and now—and now—” She can’t finish. She feels hot with shame and remorse. She feels Wick’s palms cup her elbows and bows her forehead to his chest, for one moment allowing herself to accept the gift of his strength.
When he asks, “What can I do?” his breath stirs her hair.
“Nothing,” she answers stepping away. “Thank you for coming, for checking up on me.”
She searches his gaze hunting for judgment, censure, finding none. “I’m going to see him again. I have to.”
“Yes. I can see that you would. I would go with you.” He raises his brows at her.
She shakes her head, touches his wrist. “Thank you,” she says.
“I’m here if you need me, Sophia. All right? Whenever, whatever you need.”
She gets into her car; he closes the door. “Be safe,” he tells her. It is the same thing that Phil said.
o0o
Sophia circles the Huntsville town square twice, passing the Texan Café with its sign that announces the lunch special is chicken friend steak with gravy and mashed potatoes. She passes the laundromat on one corner with its door propped open to allow in the cool fall air. She widens her circuit and passes the prison museum. The home of Old Sparky, a sign reads.
Old Sparky. It’s the name inmates had given the electric chair back when it was used as the means of execution in the state. Sophia doesn’t know how it is that she knows this. Old Sparky ...what an appalling euphemism. It sounds almost affectionate. She glances at a set of directions she printed off before leaving home, but she can’t make sense of them and when she finally finds The Walls, it’s by accident.
Parking in the visitors’ lot, she crosses the street into the building’s shadow. She is aware of certain details, the thready sound of her pulse in her ears, the building’s austere red brick face, the black-numbered clock perched high in the roof’s peak. The moving hands are like ax blades swinging, marking time in finite measures. There is a legend that back when the executioner flipped the switch to activate Old Sparky, it sent an initial surge of 2000 volts of electricity through the condemned man that was immediately cut to 500 volts to ensure the man's flesh didn't catch fire. It is also claimed that lights across the city dimmed at such times. Sophia wonders about the clock: Did its hands stop? Did time stand still?
Inside the small foyer, when the uniformed guard behind the sliding glass window asks, Sophia shows her driver’s license. She states her reason for being there. The woman nods as if she has been expecting Sophia and picks up a phone. A few minutes later, another uniformed guard, a man this time, shows her into an adjacent room, telling her to wait. His demeanor seems careless to her, indifferent. Someone will lose their life here today, but for him it's routine, another workday, another paycheck.
When the door opens again, a different man, one dressed in a jacket and blue-striped tie extends his hand to her, introducing himself. “I’m Christopher Dinkins,” he says, “the chaplain here. I’ve been with Jarrett since his arrival.”
“Then you must not have slept either.” Sophia makes the comment without thinking.
He smiles. “Do I look that bad?”
She’s flustered. “No, I didn’t mean—”
He says it’s fine. “I understand your circumstances are unique.”
“Yes. Does he know I’ve come? Will he see me?”
“He has agreed to.” The reverend hands her a visitor’s badge and says that she should come with him. And he makes conversation as they go along, but she is fighting an urge to flee even as they penetrate more deeply into the network of concrete corridors. At the closing behind her of each heavy gate, her heart crashes against the cage of her ribs. It is worse than yesterday at Terrell. She is alone, utterly alone. Suppose they don’t let her out? Suppose she can never again see the light of day? She feels herself suffocating, but then realizes she isn’t breathing. But the smell is so foul, so horribly tainted with sadness, the loss of hope, she doesn’t want to breathe. Who would want to? Who could live like this?
How does this ever become routine, for anyone? She glances at the Reverend Dinkins. But he is only doing his job, isn’t he? He is a professional, ordained to provide solace.
Finally he stops before a door and ushers her into a room furnished with a table and four straight-backed chairs. He says Jarrett will be along directly. He says it’s all highly unusual. He says, “A guard will be posted outside the door for the duration of your visit. I’ll return in a half hour to take you back out to the lobby.”
“Thank you,” she says and sits at the table.
Minutes later, Jarrett is brought into the room by two guards through an opposite door. He’s cuffed, the same as before and it worries her that he will be kept this way, chained at the wrists, while her hands are free. She feels such relief when the cuffs are removed, it brings tears to her eyes. She blinks rapidly and he sits down, the man named Jarrett that had once been a boy named Dylan.
He says, “I was surprised when they said I was to be brought here, that I had a visitor, but then I figured it out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard you did a favor once for Senator Slade and given how hot the government is on the trail of the codex....” He winks and his grin is so incongruous, such an unexpected delight, that Sophia feels her own smile tugging at her mouth. It’s as if he has a secret and he’s sharing it with her.
He glances around the room. “I figure they’re listening.”
“You think they can’t accept that it’s gone.”
“Is it, really?” His eyes hold an element of mischief.
Sophia realizes he’s toying with them, whoever might be
listening. She thinks for all she knows, he may be toying with her.
“I'm glad you came,” he tells her.
“You are?”
“Yeah. I don't want to leave here with a lot of baggage I can’t carry.” His stare is penetrating.
“I had to see you again,” she says.
“Why?”
To ask you to live. The thought creases her brain. But she has no business asking him to live a life she would flat out refuse to live herself.
“I'm really curious.” He’s prompting her, seeking her attention, almost smiling again. “Are you here in a professional capacity?”
She says no; she says, “I would go in your place, if I could.”
“You mean die for me? But you didn't murder anyone.”
“I'm responsible for you, for this—” her gesture is meant to include all that went wrong in his experience. “It wouldn’t have happened if I had done what my mother wanted, stayed at Edna Gladney, given you up then so you could be properly—” Sophia’s gaze clings to Jarrett’s— “adopted. Oh, my God.” The realization that Esther had been right is so clear, so horribly clear. Sophia bends her face into her hands.
“That's the past,” he says. “The thing I want to know today is how you feel about me now. When you look at me, what are your thoughts? What do you see?”
She raises her gaze. His questions seem huge.
“C’mon, you’re the psychologist.”
This isn’t the dialogue she expected. Is it that he cares about her opinion? But why would he? She’s speechless for so long, he finally answers for her.
“You see your own guilt,” he says. “When you came to Terrell yesterday, and now, sitting here, you aren’t seeing me at all. You’re so focused on blaming yourself and on your regret that nothing else can enter the picture.”
She’s mute, wondering at his discernment, his seeming calm that borders on tranquility.
The Volunteer Page 28
